


Service

by ImaginationCake



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Angst, Costume Kink, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Servant, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaginationCake/pseuds/ImaginationCake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the events of the Maid in Altamira drama CD. Kratos returns to Mithos with the sample uniform he's obtained from the Altamira maid cafe, but Mithos's plans for that uniform aren't exactly what Kratos has been led to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service

**Author's Note:**

> I'd recommend listening to the Maid in Altamira drama CD before reading this, otherwise it might not make too much sense. It's a real laugh and you can find it [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o7-PLPTkErY)  
> If that's more time than you're willing to spend, the TL;DR of the drama CD is that Kratos is bringing back a maid outfit to Derris-Kharlan that he got from a maid cafe in Altamira. To get the uniform, he had to act as an employee and wear it while taking care of customers. This had... mixed results. (There's a lot more detail and humor in the full version though so I really recommend it!!)  
> Anyway, this fic takes place directly after Kratos returns to Mithos with the uniform.

Kratos entered the throne room with a garment bag draped over his arm. Though his sour expression was partially concealed by his hair, he did not bother to hide his displeasure as he walked closer to Yggdrasill.

He knelt at the foot of the throne, staring resolutely at the marble flagstones instead of at the man seated before him. "I have done what you have asked," he said stonily. _At the price of any remaining pride I had left_ , he added to himself.

"Very good," Yggdrasill purred. "I'll expect a full report from you on the subject by this time tomorrow. In the meantime...." He shifted slightly, a fleeting glimpse of excitement sharpening his features. "In the meantime, put that on."

Kratos looked up at Yggdrasill, startled. "What?"

"You heard me. I know you've already done so. I desire a repeat performance."

"Lord Yggdrasill..." Kratos began, looking like he was going to be sick, "surely you're joking..."

Yggdrasill's face instantly hardened and he stood, towering over Kratos's hunched form with his wings extended threateningly. "You will do it," he said, his voice soft with anger.

"Yes, Lord Yggdrasill," Kratos replied helplessly. He never could refuse Mithos anything, especially now when so much hung upon his ability to keep him from suspecting anything was wrong. And after all these years, he should have grown used to Mithos's childish whims. Kratos had just been caught off guard by the suddenness and...and the perversion behind this particular request. Was this what he had become to Mithos? A toy he could dress up and parade around to be laughed at? Embarrassment flamed crimson in his cheeks as he picked himself up and bowed his exit.

"Come to my chambers when you have prepared," Yggdrasill called after him.

 

It didn't take very long to put the outfit on. Kratos had figured out all the little straps and ribbons already; had already practiced rolling up the stockings, fastening the garters, lacing the bodice. It wasn't much more difficult than putting on his ordinary clothing when you got right down to it. Just exchange belts and buckles for bows and laces and it was the same concept, really. At least he told himself that as he looked in the mirror, where it was glaringly obvious that it wasn't the same concept at all.

Turning this way and that in the mirror, Kratos tried to find an angle that didn’t look utterly appalling. The tight cinch of the bodice gave him a bit of a waist, but that was where the resemblance to a female body stopped. His shoulders were too wide, his hands too large and rough, his thighs too powerful—it was no wonder that customers had recoiled from the sight. The dress was not flattering. He looked hideous. Not that he actually wanted to look good in it; it mattered little to him.

He wasn't doing makeup again; he didn't trust himself to know what would look good and what would just make the whole mess worse. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair once more. _No use in putting it off any_ longer, he thought, _I may as well complete my debasement_. Reluctantly he turned from the mirror towards the door.

 

The heeled shoes were not easy to walk in, but Kratos had enough practice walking on unsteady terrain that it did not slow him down. The halls of Derris-Kharlan were empty save for a few angels, floating listlessly along in their empty lives. For once Kratos was glad that these angels were but soulless puppets pretending at being human. They could not cast judgment upon him; they did not even recognize anything was wrong as he passed them, merely nodding their heads and murmuring their preprogrammed greetings. He barely acknowledged their presence as he walked briskly towards Yggdrasill’s chambers.

Yggdrasill was waiting patiently for him, staring out his vast window into the void of stars that was Derris-Kharlan's eternal vista. He turned at the sound of Kratos's entry, a cruel smile curling across his face as he beheld him. Kratos imagined it was the sight of his last and most loyal servant brought lower than ever before that gave Mithos such joy, and the knife-twist of hurt that came along with that realization strengthened his resolve to defeat Mithos; to do all he could to seal away this terrible monster who had grown, twisted, out of the boy who was once the hope for the world. That resolve gave him the strength to stand, even under the unbearable weight of his shame and of Yggdrasill’s eyes upon him.

“Wonderful,” Yggdrasill mused, approaching Kratos with light steps. He eyed the ensemble critically. Kratos’s humiliation began to make him feel almost physically ill as Yggdrasill moved closer, brushing his fingers along the fabric of the outfit appraisingly and making pensive sounds. Without warning Yggdrasill lifted the hem of the skirt, and it took all of Kratos’s four thousand years of self-control to keep from reacting. “Incredible,” Yggdrasill wondered, pushing his hand up farther to brush along the lacy edge of the panties that came with the outfit. “No detail spared.” He slipped a questing finger between elastic and flesh, stroking lightly for a brief teasing second before pulling away. Kratos shivered from the warm caress, but he had expected it and more, so he was not surprised. Yggdrasill stepped back with a hum of expectant pleasure.

“Take your shoes off now, dear Kratos,” Yggdrasill ordered, and Kratos obeyed, bending at the waist to unbuckle his glossy black heels. Yggdrasill moved behind him as he did so, pushing the skirt up Kratos’s back and tracing a finger down the cleft of his backside through the panties. Kratos’s fingers faltered at the familiar sensation in this new context. “Come now, don’t stop,” Yggdrasill reminded him, and slowly Kratos continued to free his ankles. The heels made the bent-over position slightly unsteady, and it was not without a degree of difficulty that he remained balanced, until Yggdrasill took hold of his hips and pressed up against him from behind. He could feel Yggdrasill’s erection through two layers of fabric, and he shuddered as his body began to respond despite the strangeness of the situation.

Even with Mithos rubbing against him he was able to concentrate enough to finish unbuckling the needlessly complicated shoes and he stepped out of them wordlessly, trusting Mithos to hold him steady as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Once his stocking-clad feet were against solid ground, Yggdrasill released him. “To the bed now, love, lie down on your back. There’s a good boy,” he cooed, as though Kratos were his dog. It was a laughable sentiment; both knew that Kratos was much less than a dog. He obeyed all the same, crawling shamefully over the covers to spread himself over them with the air of a guilty man lying down before his executioner. Yggdrasill seemed pleased. He always loved when Kratos was subservient. Smiling and moving to kneel between Kratos’s knees, he caressed Kratos’s thighs through the fabric of the stockings, brushing gently at the hard muscle in a way that reminded Kratos just how ridiculous this whole farce of an outfit looked and simultaneously inspired a throb of arousal to run through his body. He closed his eyes to block out everything. Maybe he could somehow forget the whole situation and just let Mithos play with him as if nothing was different than usual. But Mithos had other plans; he seemed to obsess over the feminine clothing, running his fingers back and forth along the ruffled tops of the stockings, a constant reminder of Kratos’s humiliation.

“Why did I never think to make you do this before?” Mithos whispered, hushed and reverent. He pushed the hem of the skirt higher, higher, until the bodice’s lacing halted its ascension and the beginnings of Kratos’s erection were displayed, hidden only dubiously by the flimsy panties that were never intended to conceal such anatomy. Moaning low in his throat, Yggdrasill lowered his head to mouth at the areas of Kratos’s sex that the panties could not contain. Kratos’s breath hitched and he felt himself harden further, exacerbating the problem. His eyes were open now, and he clenched his hands in the fabric of the duvet to see Mithos’s golden head eclipsed by the ruffles of the outfit’s skirt. How could he...how could they both have been brought so low?

Mithos left a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the side of Kratos’s erection (the panties nothing but a formality now; stretched away from Kratos’s body such that virtually everything was revealed and the fabric served only as a vague sort of restraint) and sat back up, gazing at Kratos with mad fondness.

“I love you like this, Kratos,” Mithos sighed. Kratos couldn’t bring himself to meet his eye.

“I am pleased to serve you, Lord Yggdrasill,” Kratos murmured demurely, hoping his blush would read as a compliment to Yggdrasill’s sexual prowess and not as an expression of his mortification.

“Call me by my name,” Yggdrasill demanded, pushing Kratos’s legs apart to press his own clothed erection up between them. Kratos held his knees obligingly, though his grasp threatened to slip on the silky fabric of the stockings.

“Mithos,” Kratos breathed. To his ears it sounded more like a curse than a name, but Yggdrasill hummed appreciatively and rolled his hips against Kratos’s.

“As _gorgeous_ as you look like this,” Yggdrasill started, Kratos shuddering at the abuse of the adjective, “I think it’s time to unwrap my treat.” With that he pulled on the laces of the bodice, loosening the garment enough that he could continue to push it up Kratos’s torso. “Stay as you are,” he commanded as Kratos began to release his knees in order to lift his arms. Kratos complied, and Yggdrasill leaned down to follow the path of the fabric with his mouth, sucking on the flesh of Kratos’s abdomen as it was revealed. Tilting his head back, Kratos allowed his body to react to the touches; Yggdrasill appreciated when Kratos let his guard down in front of him, and Kratos thought it a small price to pay to keep Yggdrasill content with his company. So when Yggdrasill reached his nipples he allowed a small sound to escape, not entirely forced, and he wrapped his legs around Yggdrasill’s waist, pulling him closer, not entirely orchestrated. He was used to this dance; the details had changed, and he had changed, but the warm feeling of being lovingly consumed was engrained deep within his soul, hammered into him after millennia of nothing but one another on this haphazard journey. And when Mithos finally tugged the dress over Kratos’s head completely, letting it fall to the side like discarded trash and staring at Kratos like he was treasure beyond worth, Kratos felt a swelling of regret for everything that had gone so, so wrong. He reached out and pulled Mithos into a kiss full of false promises and bittersweet remorse.

“Undress me,” Mithos pleaded breathlessly when they broke apart, and Kratos did not deny him; he slipped the white fabric of Mithos’s garment off his shoulders, brushing softly against the crystal embedded in his chest as he did so, which elicited a slow sound of desire. Kratos was practiced in undressing Yggdrasill and did so with steady hands, exposing long stretches of unblemished skin, warm and pliant to the touch. Mithos’s eyes were closed, his hair hanging down on either side of his face like a curtain to conceal him from the world, just long enough that it brushed over Kratos’s torso, kissing it with a feathery caress. When he was bare from the waist up he took over, retreating temporarily to strip his hips and legs with urgent movements. Kratos lay there, still wearing the stockings and those infuriatingly useless panties, unable to do anything but wait for whatever Mithos decided to do with him.

Soon Mithos had gotten rid of his clothing and retrieved a gel from the panel in the wall next to his bed, opening it and dipping one hand in. His gel-covered hand pulled down Kratos’s panties, turning them into a slippery mess and finally, finally freeing Kratos’s erection. With reluctance Mithos removed the undergarments completely and tossed them aside, but he left the stockings where they were. Wordlessly he used his fingers to prepare Kratos: again, something that both of them knew well, a set of movements that retained only echoes of the tenderness that lay at their origin. The gesture was cursory, just enough to make Kratos slick; they did this often and recently enough that there was little need for more. Kratos’s hips twitched anticipatorily at the slippery sensation, not entirely under his control.

“Patience,” Mithos soothed, but his expression was pleased.

It took seconds for Mithos to stroke gel over himself; he wiped his hand off on the duvet and pushed Kratos's legs up and out once again. Cool air danced over Kratos’s exposed skin, and he shivered. This was the moment he loved and hated the most, when he lay there helpless, his body opened to Mithos’s whim, an empty shell waiting to be filled. It was surrender; his ultimate expression of trust to a man he had not truly trusted for millennia.

At last Mithos moved forward. Kratos held Mithos’s gaze as Mithos sank into him, holding his breath at the press of flesh into his body, the slick glide of well-lubricated skin, the burn of his muscles as his legs were pushed nearly to his shoulders. Mithos grinned at him, his eyes bright with restrained exuberance, and he turned to brush his lips across Kratos’s thigh where the ruffled fabric of the stocking ended and his skin began.

“Beautiful,” he mouthed, running his tongue over the flesh, and with that he began his movement.

If there was any shame left over from the beginning of this whole ordeal, Kratos locked it away deep inside him, along with the rest of his wildly conflicting emotions. All he wanted was for Mithos to be happy. It didn’t matter why. He spread his legs as wide as he could, wrapping them around Mithos’s torso and pulling him in closer. His vocabulary trickled away until it consisted only of gasps and half-moans and broken pieces of Mithos’s name. Stroke for stroke he rose to meet Mithos’s thrusts, manipulating his muscles to enhance sensation for both of them, twisting himself _just so_ in order to feel the most of what Mithos was giving him. He was practiced enough in this that he could reach his peak without touching himself and this time was no exception; as strange as the situation had started, it still amounted to the same thing in the end. And, if he had to be perfectly honest with himself, the stockings didn’t look terrible on their own. They felt good too, clinging to his skin like a caress, making his movements feel fluid and silky against Mithos’s body.

Kratos’s breath hitched as Mithos drove against him particularly roughly, plunging into him with enough force to trigger his release. He let the familiar high wash over him, blotting out his senses for a few blissful moments while he let Mithos use his spent body to reach his own climax. He didn’t mind if it took seconds or minutes or whatever length of time was necessary; if Mithos needed him, he would be there.

As he came down from his bliss, however, he allowed himself to remember that Mithos was the enemy now, and this was all supposed to be a game of pretend that Kratos was playing with the intent of eventually— sooner than ever, now —bringing Yggdrasill’s reign to an end.

His subservience was nothing but an act, he told himself. Nothing more.

Eventually Yggdrasill finished (it could have been anywhere from one minute to ten; minutia like that started to blur through the years) and he collapsed on top of Kratos, murmuring sweet nothings and kissing his neck tenderly. Kratos wrapped his arms around Mithos.

He didn’t need to be told to stay.


End file.
